


Volatile Spirits

by Cliophilyra, flutterby_cupcake_26



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Fluff and Angst, Ghost Castiel, Ghost Hunters, M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 20:29:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13419045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cliophilyra/pseuds/Cliophilyra, https://archiveofourown.org/users/flutterby_cupcake_26/pseuds/flutterby_cupcake_26
Summary: Dean has agreed to accompany his brother on a ghost-hunt (sorry - "Paranormal Investigation") on New Years Eve. It's been years since he allowed himself to be dragged along with his brother's stupid hobby but it's not like he has anything better to do; or anyone to do it with. Anyway, it's all bullshit - isn't it?





	Volatile Spirits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flutterby_cupcake_26](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flutterby_cupcake_26/gifts).



> My incredibly belated New Years fic for the lovely flutterby_cupcake_26! I hope you like it :) 
> 
> This is the first thing I have finished in about a year so I am very pleased, although I'm not convinced it's any good! I know I should be finishing the Spideypool WIP and if you are a reader of that as well I'm sorry and I promise I have not abandoned it! 
> 
> Very, very vaguely inspired by the 1988 movie High Spirits.

The sweeping staircase has an air of faded grandeur. In fact this whole place reeks of it, of ornate gilded elegance which, on closer inspection, is worn down to the wood. All the surfaces are polished to a dull gleam by the touch of decades and once rich fabrics are now faded and threadbare. Dust motes meander through shafts of light that paint the worn carpets with the colours of the stained glass doors. This place may have been the height of luxury fifty or sixty years ago, but it has long since fallen on hard times. 

Dean Winchester looks around, unimpressed, as his brother checks them in. The man at the front desk looks as old and worn out as the rest of the place. After some wrangling Sam turns and grins, a room key with a heavy brass fob hanging from his fingers. ‘Isn’t this place great?’ he enthuses. Dean raises a skeptical eyebrow and snatches the key before stomping off towards the ancient elevator, hoisting his duffle higher on his shoulder. Sam sighs and follows after him. 

***

After a distinctly unsteady and noisy ascent, the elevator shudders to a halt at their floor. The metal “safety gate” lets out a squeal of protest as Dean pushes it aside and they disembark warily into a hallway leading to a warren of dark corridors. Dark red thinning carpets run off into the distance and a selection of terrible paintings in chipped gilt frames hang at seemingly random points along the walls. 

Dean glances at the key in his hand, room 669. He starts off down one of the corridors, his brother following. There is no sound other than their footsteps, muffled by the old carpet, and the trundling wheels of Sam’s case as he drags it behind him. Christ knows why he needed a suitcase, they’re only staying one night. The room numbering seems to be somewhat random, as is often the case in old hotels, but he finds his way easily enough. There is something familiar about this place, but back in the days when he accompanied his brother on these trips more often they stayed in so many crumbling fleapit hotels that they all started to blur together. He shrugs, unlocks the door and flicks on the light.

The room is big, with a high ceiling. A very dusty chandelier hangs from the plaster rosette in its centre, missing more than a couple of dangly crystal things. The carpet is blood red again and the heavy velvet drapes, which may once have matched it, are now sun-bleached to patches of dusty pink. An ancient TV with an off-white plastic casing and a wire aerial sits on an art-deco-style walnut bureau at the foot of one of the beds.

‘Wow this place is a dump Sammy, even by your standards,’ Dean sighs.

‘What the hell are you talking about? This place is amazing,’ Sam says, running his hand over the furniture, then trying surreptitiously to wipe the resulting dust on his jeans. ‘This is meant to be the most haunted hotel in the state,’ he grins.

Dean rolls his eyes at his brother as he pushes back the drapes to peer out of the grimy windows. From the look of the crumbling brick buildings that surround it, the hotel is not the only part of the neighbourhood to have seen better days, but fat snowflakes are falling heavily, dropping a veil of silent white over the street, turning it into something almost picturesque in the early evening gloom. He can almost imagine how it looked once, with rows of smart brownstone houses and wide avenues, the shiny beetle shapes of old fashioned cars moving past. 

‘According to who?’ he asks over his shoulder. ‘Idiots on the internet?’ A passing police car wails, its lights casting flashing blue shadows across his face and the surrounding snow.

‘Hey!’ Sam exclaims, without real heat. ‘I _am_ the idiots on the internet.’

Dean sighs. ‘I still can’t believe you make a living blogging about haunted houses.’

‘It’s called Paranormal Research Dean,’ Sam says. Dean can hear the capital letters. ‘And it’s not just a blog. There’s the podcast and the books and…’

‘Oh god shut up!’

‘Whatever, I make more money than you do jerk.’

‘Touché,’ Dean sighs heavily. ‘What the fuck is the world coming to?’

Sam grins and sits down on one of the two neatly made, single beds. Both have identical green artificial silk quilts and thin, yellow candlewick blankets that look as old as the building itself. ‘Anyway,’ he sighs, bouncing experimentally on the edge of the mattress, ‘stop pretending you hate this so much, you used to love this stuff as much as I do. You didn’t have to come but it sure as shit beats sitting at home or in some crappy dive bar drowning your sorrows in whiskey and/or shit TV.’ 

There is a hint of annoyance in his tone and Dean opens his mouth to bite back, but his sarcastic denial dies on his lips when he looks back at his brother and sees not anger or pity but genuine sympathy. He shrugs one shoulder. ‘Guess you’re right,’ he looks back out of the window. ‘Still kinda missing the whiskey though.’ 

A glass chinking sound from behind him makes him turn, Sam is holding up a bottle. Dean grins. ‘You’re the best Sammy, I don’t care what everyone else says.’

Sam raises his eyebrows. ‘Bite me,’ he says with a smile, unscrewing the bottle cap and taking a swig of whiskey. Dean makes a face, grabbing for the bottle before any more germs can be transferred. 

After a short scuffle Dean has possession of the whiskey and is sitting on the other bed, pouring the liquor into one of the plastic cups Sam had produced from his bag. ‘Ok then,’ he says, carefully balancing the cup between his knees as he over-fills it with whiskey. ‘What’s the deal with this place? Ghosts? Demons? Bigfoot?’

Sam unzips his suitcase and pulls out a pile of paper which he shuffles in his lap. ‘Ghosts,’ he says. ‘There’s a whole heap of sightings and reports from this place, going back years. Something for pretty much every room if you look - poltergeist activity, cold spots, misty figures, phantom smells and weird noises --” 

‘Yeah well, anyone who shares a room with you can experience weird noises and phantom smells…’

‘Fuck you Dean. Anyway, as I was saying, the other rooms have a ton of vague stuff but this room seems to be the mother-load, supernaturally speaking. It’s the only one with reports of an actual, full-body, roaming apparition.’

‘Full-body, roaming… You get that from Ghostbusters?’

‘Bite me.’

‘Whatever Egon. So who’s the spook?’

‘No one knows for sure. A bunch of people over the years have reported it. It’s a couple of guys in old fashioned clothes – maybe 1940’s? – anyway, they appear out of nowhere, have an argument then one of them shoots the other one and they disappear. No one’s been able to work out who they might be. It only seems to happen on New Years’ though. Which is why we’re here.’

Dean shivers involuntarily then clears his throat, embarrassed. Sam gives him a look. ‘What?’

Dean shakes his head dismissively. ‘Nothing. Someone walking over my grave.’

***

Two hours later they have read the entire history of all the reported sightings and phenomena, dissected the sad state of Dean’s love life and the ridiculousness of Sam’s job, finished most of the bottle of whiskey and a truly amazing apple pie which Sam had produced from the depths of his bag. 

Passing the bottle back to his brother, Dean pushes himself upright and walks, somewhat unsteadily, to the small bathroom. He takes a piss then stands in front of the age-spotted mirror as he turns on the faucet. The pipes make an ominous clanking noise and the water that trickles out into the antique sink has a distinctly rusty tinge. Dean grimaces and decides against washing his hands. His reflection in the mirror, behind the worn silvering, looks thinner than he remembers and there are shadows under his eyes. The boredom and depression he’s been mired in since Benny left is etched in the new lines on his face. He scrubs his hands slowly over his eyes, trying to wipe away the gloom that pulls at the corners of his mind, threatening to drag him back down. 

As he moves his hands away, blinking away the sparks from rubbing his eyes too hard, he sees a flicker in the mirror; something that might be nothing. For a moment he is frozen, staring at something that suddenly seems too dark, too deep to be a shadow. There is a void behind him, a hole in the wall and the world and a terrible, aching, longing sweeps over him, clawing at his chest and making his vision swim. He grips the edges of the sink as the room tilts and the face in the mirror is his but also not his. Then, in the space between two heartbeats, the feeling is gone and he is staring at nothing but his own reflection and the completely normal area of shadow in the corner between the old chipped enamel bathtub and the door. Just a shadow. He stands stock still, mouth dry, heart hammering, knuckles pale where he still holds the sides of the basin in a death grip. After what seems like an age he slowly relaxes his fingers and takes a huge breath, as if he has suddenly remembered how. He glances up into the mirror again and sees nothing odd. He shakes his head and curses himself for agreeing to get into this ridiculous Haunted Mansion shit again. He’d never admit as much to Sam, but it always did freak him out a bit more than he was comfortable with. He shoves open the door and goes back into the room. He doesn’t look behind him. 

Sam looks up as he returns, takes in his pallor and frowns. ‘You ok?’ he asks. Dean nods, sitting back on the bed. He says nothing, afraid his voice will betray him. ‘Did you see something?’ Sam asks excitedly.

‘No Sammy I was taking a piss. Is that ok with you?’ Dean snaps. Sam arches an eyebrow but says nothing. Dean leans back against the headboard again. It’s nothing, he tells himself, just a combination of over-active imagination, half a bottle of whiskey and… And nothing. He’s just tired and drunk. 

***

Dean lies still, listening intently to the darkness, unsure what woke him. Sam is fast asleep and snoring, his laptop open on his chest, the glow from the screen casting his face in eerie light. Dean strains to pick out any unusual sounds, but the room is quiet, apart from the ticking of the clock on the wall above the TV and his brother’s snoring, which sounds like someone gargling with gravel, as usual. He is about to turn over and try and get back to sleep when his vision flickers for a moment and suddenly a dark haired man is standing at the foot of his bed. 

Dean stares at him, transfixed, not breathing. The man doesn’t seem to notice him, doesn’t even glance in his direction. His gaze is focused on something by the window. Despite the darkness, Dean can make out every detail of the man’s face, the dark hair under his trilby hat, the lines in the corners of his eyes, his strong jawline. He can see the creases in the collar of his old-fashioned dark coloured trench-coat, turned up as if he has just come in from the cold. The man appears completely solid, but something about the way he stands out against the gloom makes Dean immediately aware that the man is not really ‘here’ in the strictest sense of the word. He appears to be speaking - his lips move quickly as he holds his gloved hands out in front of him in a soothing gesture - but Dean cannot hear a word. 

Sam sleeps on, apparently peacefully. Dean knows he should wake him but he cannot look away. The dark haired man looks scared now, holding his hands up higher, fingers spread in front of him as if he is reasoning with someone, but there is no one else visible in the room. He walks forward slowly, one hand out, then his bright blue eyes widen and he stops, stumbling and falling back onto the floor. Grasping his shoulder, he scrambles clumsily backward toward the bathroom, shiny shoes slipping on the carpet. 

Dean is up and out of bed before he knows what is happening. He runs to the bathroom door and stares down at the man who now sits awkwardly with his back against the wall with blood running from his sleeve, leaving sticky, red handprints on the cracked linoleum floor. His eyes are filled with a mixture of fear and anger as he looks up, staring through Dean at his invisible assailant. The sight fills Dean with a mixture of horror and rage that, if he paused to consider it, he would be unable to rationally explain. But he doesn’t pause. He wheels around, trying to see what the man sees and freezes as he finds himself face to face with another man. This man wears similarly old-fashioned clothes but, where the dark haired man is tall and well dressed, this man is short and dishevelled, unshaven and wild-eyed. He also holds a gun, a small silver revolver which gleams in his shaking hand. 

Dean grabs for the weapon but his hands pass through the man. Grasping at air, he stumbles forward, leaving the rough man standing directly over the dark haired man. He is shouting although Dean still cannot hear him. The dark haired man still seems to be trying to talk the gunman down. His slow movements suggest calming, placating words but his eyes are wide with fear. Then the gunman yells something and the dark haired man holds up his hands, his mouth opens, hands flying up to shield his face.

Without a thought Dean throws himself between the men. He doesn’t hear the shot but he sees the terror of it in the dark haired man’s eyes. Pain explodes in his back and he falls forward, dropping to his knees onto the cold floor. The room is a blur, the pain is searing. He screws his eyes shut as it burns through him. Then, just as he’s sure he’s going to die, the pain vanishes as if it was never there. His eyes snap open and he finds himself face to face with the dark haired man, but this time, the wide blue eyes are focused directly on his own.

***

They stare at each other in silence and then the dark haired man opens his mouth. ‘You…’ he begins and for the first time Dean can hear his voice. He seems transfixed by Dean for a moment, then he speaks again. ‘Thank god, thank god,’ he breathes, his eyes are extremely blue and they seem to light up the dark room. His voice is deep and rough. It is, Dean realises, the exact voice he heard in his head every time he saw him speak. Without warning the man darts forward and presses his lips to Dean’s. 

The taste of chilled metal and desperate longing consumes him. There is no physical press of skin against his, only a thrill that prickles across his lips and rushes down his spine. His fingers and toes tingle as if he’s coming in to the warm after walking hours in the snow. His mind has stalled, he doesn’t want to move; he doesn’t want anything but this. He closes his eyes and feels the gentle sensation of pins and needles roll over his skin. He knows this feeling, half way between a memory and a story overheard. 

The man moves to wrap his arms around Dean’s neck but they pass straight through him. This time the sensation is like a full-body static shock, he flinches back sharply and they stare at each other, mouths open, eyes locked. The man looks confused, he reaches out again, brushing his fingers against Dean’s cheek, but again his pale fingertips slip through as if he’s not there and Dean feels nothing but the strange charge that seems to fill his body and mind with white noise. The man looks as if he might cry. ‘Dean,’ he says imploringly. The part of Dean’s mind that has no idea what is happening rebels for a moment, demanding an explanation, before it slips away and what looks out from behind his eyes now is more than just Dean Winchester. 

‘Cas--’ the name comes to him as if he has always know it, he _has_ always known it. He can still feel the chill of the kiss. He swallows and closes his mouth. ‘What happened?’ he asks, because he doesn’t want to say “I love you,” to a dead man he only just met. 

‘You saved me.’

‘From what? What happened to you?’

‘He came back. He saw us together and he followed me here and he…he had a gun. He shot me in the arm and I fell and he came after me. He wouldn’t listen, he just kept coming. He kept saying if he couldn’t have me no one would. He was fucking crazy. I said you were coming, that you would stop him but he just laughed. I begged him… I just wanted to see you again, I just wanted you to walk in that door but you didn’t come and he…’ A pause, Cas looks uncertain then continues in a quieter tone. ‘…he shot me and I died. I died and then I kept on dying. I kept on begging and calling for you and he kept on shooting me and I kept on dying. Until today.’ His eyes are filled with tears, his hands twitch as he tries to reach out again. 

Dean reaches for him, desperate to touch. ‘I’m sorry angel,’ he says, tears silently slide down his cheeks from unfocused eyes, his voice sounds different now; a hint of a southern drawl behind it. The words that tumble out of him are both his and not his. ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t come. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. I was so afraid. So afraid of this, of us. I was never afraid of nothing but I never had nothing like you Cas. All my life my dad was breathing down my neck about the family business, how I had to take over and run it and be a good son and get married and settle down. If he’d ever found out I think he woulda killed me. I wanted to run so badly. I was comin’ to meet you, like we planned. Get the hell out of here. But I sat in the car and I couldn’t move, I couldn’t stand to think how he’d take it out on my brother after I’d gone. And I thought maybe you’d be better off without me and I convinced myself I should let you go. So I did and I never heard from you again til the day I died. I thought you hated me and I didn’t blame you, but I never stopped thinking about you, wishing I’d been stronger, hoping you ended up happier than I could have made you. I was so stupid Cas I’m so sorry, I loved you so much.’

Cas’s eyes close and he nods. When he opens his eyes again he looks almost relieved. ‘It’s ok Dean. I understand. I loved you too.’ 

This time, when Cas’s fingers brush against his skin, Dean feels it. The barest touch, the ghost of warmth. A deep, abiding comfort wraps around him, sinking into his bones. The weight of a hundred years of loneliness leaves him in a ragged rush of breath as Cas’s thumb slips over his cheek, pushing away tears. Dean moves his hands closer, hovering uncertainly before he grabs Cas and drags him into another kiss. This one is warm and soft and slow. It seems to fill up his whole soul. He closes his eyes and focuses on the familiar touch that he has never felt before. He can taste him, smell him, hear him breathing; his heart beating. A flare of brilliant light makes him open his eyes with a start to see luminous blue and white sparks like fireflies pouring from Cas. His edges are blurring, the sparks are filling the room and somehow Dean knows he is going. He can feel him fading but he also feels the overwhelming sense of relief and joy that radiates from him. The desire to hold on is almost unbearable but he makes himself smile, fighting the rising panic in his chest. 

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too angel.’

‘See you again soon. I promise.’

A vortex of sparks lights up the room for an instant and then there is nothing but darkness.

***

Dean sits on the floor of the dark bathroom. Gradually he becomes aware of the room again, the overwhelming silence and stillness. His face is wet from tears. He blinks away the drops that cling to his eyelashes and tries to remember how he got there. He has woken from a dream he only half remembers with a dull aching emptiness in his chest. Was someone else there? He has a fleeting impression of a man with blue eyes but as he reaches for the memory it slips away. He frowns to himself. This is why we don't drink half a bottle of whiskey on an empty stomach. He gets to his feet slowly, uncurling numb legs. All his muscles protest as he stands with a groan. 

‘Dean?’ his brother’s voice comes from the bedroom, he sounds groggy but worried. ‘Dean! Where are you?’ 

Dean goes back to the other room where Sam is sitting up on the bed. ‘It's ok Sammy,’ he says lightly.

Sam blinks in the darkness and stares at him. ‘What the hell?’ he says squinting, face creased from sleep. 

‘Thought I heard something,’ Dean explains, not about to admit he apparently passed out on the bathroom floor. ‘I…it was…,’ he frowns again. There was something important but he has no idea what it was now. He smiles, ignoring the hollow in his chest. ‘Nothin’.’

‘No sign of ghosts?’ Sam looks disappointed under his half smile.

A shiver runs up Dean’s spine for some reason, but he shakes his head. ‘No, seems like you're out of luck.’

Sam sighs and lies down again. ‘Shit,’ he says with feeling. ‘Can’t believe I fell asleep. Sorry I dragged you out here for nothing.’

Dean sits down on his bed. ‘S’ok,’ he says. ‘It’s been…an experience.’

Sam laughs dryly. ‘I guess so, I mean if you count getting pass out drunk in a shit hotel as an experience.’

‘Like you said; better than sitting at home alone.’

‘True.’

‘I have missed this,’ Dean says quietly. ‘It's been cool to hang out with you again. Even if we didn't see any ghosts.’

Sam smiles. ‘Thanks man, you too.’

The rest of the night passes uneventfully.

***

For Dean the next few days pass in a daze. He spends New Years’ Day with Sam and they eat too much and watch awful TV. He laughs and jokes but feels weirdly empty for reasons he can't name. Sometimes he feels an overwhelming sadness sweep over him and he wants to cry but he puts it down to residual grief over the end of his relationship, despite the fact that he hardly thinks about his absent partner anymore. He thinks he dreams about someone a lot but the face is always gone when he opens his eyes. After the holidays he goes back to work at his uncle Bobby’s garage, muddling through without really feeling present for a moment. His thoughts keep skipping back to the bathroom of the old hotel for some reason. 

He's working on a car, lying on his back on a trolley underneath a hideous yellow Pinto when he hears a soft deep voice calling out. ‘Hello? Anyone here?’ 

He shoots out from under the car to find a vaguely familiar man in a dark suit and a tan coat looking down at him. He is ridiculously attractive, with dark, messy hair and brilliant blue eyes. Dean tries desperately to remember where he has seen him before and realises he is staring with his mouth open, just at the moment when the man clears his throat and points back towards the doors. ‘Hi…I…um…my car…’ he says, sounding unsure. 

Dean struggles to his feet, not taking his eyes off the man. The longer he looks at him the more his heart feels like it's expanding. Like it’s going to explode with a combination of grief and happiness that he can't understand. He knows he must look like a lunatic but he can't stop grinning at the man. The man looks wary but a smile twists the corners of his mouth. 

‘Hi,’ Dean says, wiping his hands on the rag that hangs from his pocket. ‘I’m—’

‘—Dean,’ the man says, smiling.

Dean’s eyes widen. ‘How did you know that?’

‘It’s…on your coverall…’ the man says with a confused laugh. Dean’s gaze falls to the embroidered patch on his chest and he blushes. 

‘Oh yeah,’ he clears his throat. ‘Uh, so why don’t you show me what the problem is? Um…?’

The man puts out his hand. ‘Castiel,’ he says as Dean takes it. At the sound of the name Dean freezes, his grip tightening as an uncontrollable flood of someone else’s memories cascade over him. Castiel looks alarmed for a moment then it’s as if he tunes in to the charged atmosphere. He looks down at their hands and back up into Dean’s eyes. ‘Dean…’ he breathes, eyes wide but unfocused. The spell only lasts for a second, then they let go of each other’s hands and blink as if they’ve just woken up. ‘Good to meet you Cas,’ Dean says. Castiel doesn’t correct him. 

‘You too Dean.’ 

They are both grinning at each other, almost laughing because neither of them quite understand what is going on. 

‘Have we met?’ Cas asks. 

‘I don’t think so? But…’ Dean begins.

‘I have such strong deja-vu,’ Cas laughs. ‘It’s so odd. When we shook hands—‘

‘—yeah, it was like I could remember…’ Dean trails off with a self-conscious laugh. Not wanting to tell this stranger what he’d thought he remembered. ‘Anyway,’ he says, clearing his throat. ‘You wanna show me your car?’ Cas smiles and leads the way outside. 

The Lincoln Continental sits forlornly in the parking lot, it has definitely seen better days. Dean pops the hood and they both lean over the engine; Castiel explaining the problem as Dean pokes around and points out what needs to be done. He’s fairly certain Cas doesn’t have clue what he is talking about, but is gamely trying to look like he understands. A couple of times Dean raises his eyes from the engine to see Cas looking at him with a soft smile and his head cocked to one side. He looks down again quickly but he can’t stop the smile that pulls at his own lips. 

When he’s finished his initial diagnosis they head back inside. Dean presses his lips together nervously as he watches Cas fill out the paperwork. He’s going to leave in a moment. What if he doesn’t see him again for some reason? What if someone else is here when he picks his car up? What if Dean gets hit by a truck tomorrow? He needs to say something now. He has never in his life felt like this about anyone. Like they know each other already, like he knows everything about this man, what he loves, what he hates, who he is inside. He knows all of that. Probably best not to start by telling him that though. 

Cas looks up when he’s finished. ‘It was lovely to meet you Dean,’ he says, holding out a hand again. 

Dean takes it and this time the spark he feels doesn’t even surprise him. It’s not shocking; it’s comfortable and familiar. 

‘You too Cas.’ They look at each other for a moment until Cas turns to leave with a faintly sad smile. 

‘Cas!’

Castiel turns on the spot, looking hopeful.

‘Um would you…d’ya wanna go…? I mean, if you…um. If you’re into…um. Oh for fucks’ sake.’ Dean frowns, aware that none of the words he just said made any sense. He shakes his head in disgust, takes a deep breath and starts again. ‘Would you like to go for a drink with me?’

Cas grins. ‘I’d love to Dean.’


End file.
